


Paradise

by Saraku



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Background Main Shadowbringers Cast Ensemble, Gen, Introspection, Very Lightly Implied/Possible Relationships, i dont know what else to tag, random bits of researched info in my end notes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-07
Updated: 2019-08-07
Packaged: 2020-08-12 04:01:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20152189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saraku/pseuds/Saraku
Summary: Resting after the battle with Emet-Selch has given the Exarch time to reflect on words spoken to an enemy that seemed almost a millennium ago.





	Paradise

**Author's Note:**

> Please let me know if there's a tag I should add. This was literally an impulse write looking back at something and I honestly don't know what my intent was.

He didn’t need sleep, not truly. Other than the idea that he’d felt he’d already slept far too much, when one’s stamina and lifeforce was directly connected to the very existence of something, it made sleep unnecessary.

As such, when he’d pardoned himself from the Spagyrics for his personal quarters, he’d ignored Lyna’s pointed gaze that said his personal quarters did not hold anything entirely suitable for resting and slipped away.

He’d rested enough. When he wasn’t being harassed by Emet-Selch in the distant-past Amaurot, when he wasn’t swimming through the hints and words and everything in-between regarding Ascians and souls and pain of non-existent memories –

(– a mimicry of the past, a place once called _home_ –)

– he reflected on the past. On his actions, other’s actions, other’s words.

The feeling burned, then. 

Leaning against the crystalline walls, he could feel it burn now.

A mistake. A foolish mistake. He’s had years – a _century_ – to be better, become better at this.

“_What good is a paradise to them if it is a thousand years in the making?”_

What good was a hundred years if he kept making mistakes; had Ryne not harnessed her powers as Oracle, had the Warrior not channeled the excess light into an axe and downed Emet-Selch with it, what would –

No.

To think such thoughts now, when the events had already passed and taken their course would be a waste of precious time.

(Years, hundreds of them – he’d wasted too much already.)

Even in the depths of the tower, in the tallest spire, he could hear the people of the Crystarium cheering. Celebrating the Warrior of Darkness, the return of ethereal night sky.

Tired as he may, he has enough stamina to draw upon the tower’s magic and make his room soundproof. He’d done so in the past effortlessly, thoughtlessly, even amidst bouts of anxiety and pain and thinking thinking _thinking_.

Celebrations – as cheerful as they were, as happy as he was that the people of the First had a chance at paradise – they interfered with his work, his studies.

“– and the safe return of our Exarch!”

…

Sentimentality was… common. Common for his age, common for G’raha Tia, the ostracized Miqo’te due to an odd Allagan eye. ‘Hiraeth’, the Sharlayan’s called it.

Perhaps for now he’d relent. Let the music flow in like it had in the past. A paradise for the people he was proud to have helped.

… Paradise.

His head aches, vision going blurry as the unfurled Allagan blood within him soared.

_“You poor, deluded fool. These people care not for the morrow. They care only for the now, and the contentment they lack.” Vauthry’s voice rose, dominating the room. “What good is a paradise to them if it is a thousand years in the making? Or even a hundred!?”_

A paradise a hundred years in the making. How long had the Allagans yearned to make the tower what it once was? How long had Emet-Selch lived to bring back his home, his paradise?

He swallows, running a hand through his hair. Why waste thoughts on a paltry set of words?

He knew the answer to his own question. Everything was worth looking into, regardless of the vileness of their source. For the sinfulness of Vauthry, for the naïveté of Innocence.

What good is a paradise if it a thousand years in the making? What good is a paradise if one never sees the fruits of their labours?

Selfish, selfish, selfish.

Pinnacle of sin.

(He wanted to live, of course. G’raha Tia wanted to see the Warrior free, living, to see Lyna relax, for the people of Norvrandt to breathe air not choked with aetheric poison –

Selfish, selfish, _selfish._)

But what _was_ a paradise? The ultimate utopia? If so, whose? Such words differ for everyone. He knows how the Ascians would define their utopia (_Amaurot_, a haunted whisper in his mind), he knows how those from Vauthry’s rule found their utopia in decadence and inevitability. He knows the Crystarium’s utopia would be freedom from the Primordial Light.

Utopia. Paradise. The words went hand-in-hand, but the Exarch could not bring himself to take the words for himself.

He wanted to. He wanted paradise, he wanted a utopia of his own, made for him after so _long_.

He let himself slide down the wall, dropping gently to the ground.

No. He had too many things to do. Paradise had to wait.

(He wanted time. More, _more_ time, far more than the time he’d lived past, so much more time than he’d already used, that he didn’t deserve –

G’raha wanted to rest. To have more time to accept his paradise’s nonexistence.)

He could not afford to be selfish now, much as he wished. There were things to be done, people to send home, people to rehome, all the things he never thought he’d have to do because of what was meant to be his _inevitable demise_ –

The distinctive sound of the voice he’d never forget rang through with laughter before he could hear the bidding the Scions a good rest.

_“G’raha,” his inspiration says, “I implore you to rest, please.” One hand grabs his own in a reassuring grip. “’twill be alright for you to act be a living being again.”_

_“Living?” He murmurs, perplexity running through him. “I’m afraid I do not understand.” He’s been living for so many years –_

_The hand tightens around his own. “How long have you spent waiting?” Lips lean close to an ear, away from potential eavesdroppers. “What is the difference between living and existing?”_

“The difference between medicine and poison is the dosage,” the Exarch mutters. It nearly goes unheard to him against the noise outside. “As is the same with light and dark.”

He pushes himself up. The crystal on his body hums.

It’s not the most fair comparison.

But it was a start.

_“I implore you to rest, please.”_

The Exarch takes a deep breath and forces himself to move, to clean his eternal mess of books and scrolls on the bed he rarely touched. Smooths out the fabric given to him as a gift from Lyna.

There was no time to dwell on the past now. The time he’d wasted was gone, never to return. Yes, he had made mistakes. Mistakes that could have cost some their lives, mistakes that didn’t but _should’ve_ caused him his life.

_“What is the difference between living and existing?”_

There was no time to dwell. He could have only lost his life if he had lived in the first place.

The living needed time. The living needed rest. The living could not do all he does in one moment. To live is to breathe, to experience, to take one’s time on the stepping stone.

The Exarch puts down his staff.

For the second time in his memory, G’raha Tia willingly rests in the Crystal Tower.

\---

When he steps out of the tower the following morn, the Exarch is given a good morning from the Captain of the Guard before Lyna gives him a hug rare now for her age. He spots the Scions of the Seventh Dawn by the Aetheryte.

The Warrior holds a fishing rod. Y’shtola sees him first, he’s sure, with how her head tilts in his direction. Ryne was reading the book of Heavensward with Urianger, Thancred nearby having what seems to be a hopeless conversation with Feo Ul. Alisaie holds her brother in a mildly concerning, mildly amusing, threatening grip.

The Warriors spots him and gives him a wave with the hand holding the rod, a blinding smile reminiscent of a personal, long-thought-lost paradise.

(Paradise was in the making. It would always, _always _be in the making.

But the foundations were there, ready to be built upon.)

G'raha Tia smiles in return.

He had work to do, yes.

Still.

Paradise was waiting.

**Author's Note:**

> I just wanted to see how people reacted to scenes to the game, not get gut-punched as I listen to the verbal battle between Vauthry and the Exarch, jfc. Take my pain


End file.
